Silva obscura

When we blink before the truth, it still abides 

the junction of the fearful and the fair

where truth obliges, and where justice glides 

across the fields of stubbornness and care,

to that most humble home of pride and right

hidden from heartbreak by clean duty and fresh air.

We jump away from horror, and from flight,

and turn our eyes towards the sweeter view,

of wild blue blossoms under moonlit night.

We know the answer cannot be so new

as to require us to bend our speech and song

into a tool for meting out the true,

and signaling the lines of right and wrong.

When we arise we have to be as strong 

as angry bullock in the greener field.

We cannot hope to hide our shame for long,

our choice is force, and energy unsealed,

beyond the spearhedge of new ruddy day,

that dipped and danced with hearts securely steeled

against the looming darkness of our play.

The horrid evil. swallowing plain night,

and leaving awful serpents set to slay

the sparkling remnants of unconquered might 

that we are tempted to make into fire, not for the favor of a single light 

but for the careful silence we require 

when turning silent gases into flame,

incinerating what we most desire 

into a means of brightening each name.

The monster that abides here out of pride

is not our glory, nor our hill of shame,

but one more mark that we desire to hide

from both the dormouse and the soldiers’ rage.

It’s not an object to be kept inside,

polished as any statement on the stage.

It’s our assertion that we can’t abide

the drama and the farce of our weak age.

So we wait for the tumult to subside,

and for our target to recede so far

that it appears to flutter and to glide

across the places our darkness may not mar.

Towards the meadow, and the sterling warmth,

and every moment that we may not bar

of the first glimmer of the evening star.

No swifter victory has been obtained

These generals are cowards to the core,

although so pretty in their parade kit

they lack the basic skill of waging war.

Not one of them can recall the least bit 

of what they learnt of tactics and command,

and action fills their uniforms with shit.

You will not see them in hard battle stand,

but scream at sight of soldiers, and then run,

while the opponent laughs and thinks it grand

to see them flee before they’ve fired a  gun.

When war’s this easy there’s no need to fight,

just point your weapons, and enjoy the fun.

You need no tactics, your risks are so slight 

when they see you they piss their pants in fear,

and, lacking orders, turn their heels in flight.

This enemy would never think to dare

advance to worry a superior force,

possessing knowledge that they quake in fear.

Thus this encounter follows no hard course,

and is so easy, far beyond belief, 

that they’d capitulate to a dead horse.

One side, we know, will never come to grief

but take its victory with a broad smile.

The artillery laughs out in relief, 

and infantry is happy for this while.

The field commander tells his men to charge.

The running enemy can’t make a mile

before they halt, and cease to be at large.

One more such battle and the war is won;

there’s happy laughter from private and sarge,

who stand amazed how easy it was done,

and seeing swiftly they’ll obtain the win:

A war without a skirmish, that’s straight fun.

No bullet will, in anger, touch a skin,

the chaplain chants a hymn of praise to Mars,

with on his face a wide and joyous grin,

since actual conflict was not in the stars.

At such a speed as never seen before;

not for a moment in all other wars 

had any victory been obtained so fast,

that this false battle, at once first and best,

would be both easiest, and be the last.

This was the only military test,

it was so simple they could not believe 

grown men could flee with such appalling zest,

at such a pace that it could not deceive,

even the most suspicious of all men,

in gratitude his mother need not grieve,

as it was clear they’d never strike again

at such a target that so quickly fell

not one combatant felt a touch of pain.

Instead there was a story they would tell 

of such a battle over in swift time

as to suggest the enemy could smell

defeat arriving in a single chime,

and so departed in unruly haste.

So here I’m ending with this simple rhyme.

And then we’re hard awake

You know the fact that within every crowd

there’s one voice shouting that we are all wrong,

and never should have chosen to be proud.

There’s always one more verse to every song

in every language, we have to respect 

even the ones that have the chorus wrong,

before we dare to cavil, or reject 

the wiser option of a single pause,

at the good timing of the worst effect 

of this false application of the laws

regarding human limits, and form

in which we take or ignore our own cause.

There’s never need to stray from any norm 

our fathers set, to keep us far from war,

of honorable action in the storm 

each one of us sees in the light afar,

and cannot hope to duck or to evade

the monster darkness eating the last star.

back to the sea

the ocean is a being with grey teeth

what it has eaten everyone must learn

we see the smile and know what hides beneath

each of us has to take a painful turn

upon the oars in honour of old grief

yet in that setting finding what we earn

is less than we deserve and that so brief

a pain may serve as well the mark to sear

into each skin before we find relief

from chore and duty and learn to adhere

not only to the plain but to the hard

since nothing of our world could be more dear

than the one place we claim to be our yard

a coral finger a turtle of stone

with horrid memories it has been marred

and yet it is the only place we own

where rage and hatred turn into desire

and light exposes every broken bone

to show each hero that he is a liar

when he has promised an ending to night

since even truth must perish in the fire

for in these islands nothing comes out right

except the jokes and bullets from each gun

we get the heat and never find the light

but still they call us children of the sun

calculated puzzle

so in the night we watch as hatred breeds
no one says what they want the most to say
or counts the number of the evil seeds

that will produce a flower in coming day
not much is thought of but the urgent shout
that calls on each to get out of the way

requires that we put aside every doubt
and leave behind all hope of swift return
since this is power we cannot dare to flout

and we do not have any chance to earn
the thanks of those we guard or those we keep
from seeing how the world must rage and burn

in all its ecstacy of empty sleep
there's no place now for any to escape
we are sunk now and gone in far too deep

our minds and bodies too far out of shape
for any effort to redeem the past
we started human and are below ape

began the first and now are very last
driven by what we thought was divine fire
we could not be sustained against the blast

of just an ordinary mundane desire
to leave behind the painful human plight
where it belongs down in the muck and mire

and for a little while live in the light

one little dance

we learn the limits of all modes of strife
our hearts are set within one final zone
there is one thing that's valued more than life

the pain we feel cuts right down to the bone
and this is not what we are meant to find
the normal heart is simply turned to stone

each king of men finds that he is still blind
to what the normal soul desires and needs
while there's no limit to the human mind

there are clear boundaries to human deeds
and we've not yet the singular clear eye
that will see through the nonsense of the creeds

and penetrate the most well-varnished lie
to find the diamond hidden in the coal
that can't be covered though we might apply

the greatest effort and the most control
to keep our secret to the furthest end
but there's no hiding place no deepest hole

from that hard vision nowhere we can send
our cherished hearts this is the oldest tale
that any know and no one could pretend

that we have any older we can't fail
to tell our story in the open square
it is as classic as a bill of sale

these are not matters for the common air
but must be passed from hand to weary hand
until we at last come to those who dare

resist the pressure of the heavy band
and teach us how to take our place and dance
on the far shore on the clean golden sand

you say that there is only some small chance
that things will come out good and clear and right
and matters will be as in old romance

that may be so but we hope for the light

out of the dark wood

what in the dark flies flutters and goes out
beyond those trees and so far beyond the river
there is a message left a sign a shout

your heart is what we send what you deliver
is something more that you desire we leave
beyond the simple shard and sharp small sliver

that pierces what we guard and makes us grieve
for what we could not hold and what we left
as blood and water flow out through the sieve

those are the ones who know they are bereft
before we see the flags dip and the pain
of those who fail in their part of the heft

so long have we been waiting for the rain
but no king comes and we cannot now heal
honour and pride both go against the grain

your only task is to adore and kneel
as all the dancers run away and hide
before the sight of all that shiny steel

there is no room for dignity or pride
so much we lost when we gave up our grip
around us now the vicious kindred ride

who do not care for any sound of lip
but want us simply swiftly to obey
their heavy and maleficent proud whip

we call that just another working day
and let the glass crack into many shards
these are the things that get into the way

there is a way but none that the god guards
that each one knows and no one hostile bars
each self considers what justice regards

and in the silence looks up at the stars

growing up

this is red earth we can't remove the stain
no matter time spent on the washing board
our solemn purpose goes against the grain

of what we wanted remade or restored
by concrete action after rapid thought
since there's so much that we cannot afford

unless by our own efforts it's been wrought
before the coming of the hoped-for storm
that consummation which we have long sought

but to the tale the truth is there's no form
in which we can present the honest case
that does not quickly move far from the norm

we seek the recognition in each face
to let us know that we have made it safe
into the country of our dwelling place

against so many bonds we have to chafe
to find ourselves at the start of the road
with better hope than has the homeless waif

who too soon finds she cannot read the code
although it's written in an ink so black
that any who could reach a sure abode

would hope that none could see the path or track
nor be led onward by a clever nose
since it is never easy to turn back

once you have set upon the way of those
who give you hope that you can play a rôle
that sets you higher than your erstwhile foes

in early morning you won't see a soul
who has no purpose just like yours to keep
and isn't aiming at a similar goal

the ones who pose the greatest danger sleep
and only you are left to walk so far
and venture into oceans as deep

and into countries that are as bizarre
as any that are dreamt by those that smoke
from the green pipe or use the fat cigar

but that hard purpose serves as a mere cloak
over the shape of hopes that no undue
choices will lead to renewal of yoke

upon the one who merely seeks to view
the many realms that come from joyful art
old as mankind but each life will renew

the hope that's proper to each human heart
and keeps it light and ready still to glow
when each of us will play our honest part

in doing more than putting on a show
that will reward most at the start of night
and thus ensure that each who plays may go

forward with certainty into the light

rapid construction

who does the work deserves all of the pay
but that won't happen thought it would be nice
this is the bosses' not the workers' day

you break your back and just get beans and rice
and told you should be grateful for the chance
to risk your body and to pay the price

for other folk to live and love and dance
this is a matter where it would be wise
to say that all is well and we advance

many must fall so that a few may rise
to say the only effort was their own
and damn the honest who'd say otherwise

they eat the meat and leave only the bone
for those who in the heat did all the toil
that's a fact that's what we've always known

sweat as it drips supplies a sort of oil
that smooths the way to extract yet more pain
and keeps the working kettle on the boil

let them enjoy hot sun and chilling rain
in hottest august and frozen december
we're happy that they serve to take the strain

and worry that their children will remember

a simple path to paradise

a little thought and we would have to laugh
words come and go and never can express
just how to shake the wheat out of the chaff

our hope this season is just to address
the proper source of all our fear and pain
and cease to pay it the demanded cess

throughout this summer we have wanted rain
it has not come and we watch flowers die
the rules are all against us that is plain

no benison has fallen from the sky
but still we hope and still we have to smile
our future's never founded on a lie

there's no gate here no accursed slap or stile
just a plain road lacking a fingerpost
but still we can trudge on another mile

it's a long journey till we reach the coast
we have been there and set foot in the sea
but that is not a reason for our boast

all of our happiness is out and free
we have seen pain and we bear the scars
of our long struggle just to live and be

still we're rewarded by the summer stars

that deepest fear

if all the stars went out at the same time
we would not think it any great surprise
nor would we think it any sort of crime

and yet the shock would stir even the wise
to wonder at the world in which they sat
and force the foolish with haste to surmise

that change was coming here in nothing flat
ways that had functioned long no longer worked
and not a single one could now stand pat

in those thick woods what monsters now lurked
that would come out and drive each from home
the ones who struggled and the ones who shirked

the moon itself seems absent from the dome
all the above is cloud and there's no light
to comfort those who stay and those who roam

in deeper darkness we will fear each night
the power to save ourselves we cannot flex
not one of us but knows that we've no right

to all the claims that we have made to vex
the silent entities that we just know must dwell
in all those places we could not annex

the day has gone when we could buy or sell
those ordinary facts that we'd acquire
by means that none of us would ever tell

we'd smile behind our hands at the dumb buyer
who'd think that they'd received some kind of gain
and from that sort of trade we'd never tire

instead we find ourselves out on the plain
alone and helpless facing the deep dark
and wondering just how far spreads the stain

the truth of nature is that it's no park
the world we have was never meant for pride
we think it deep yet shallow is our mark

not one of us that's here will end the ride
just where we want to be we will dismember
the ones who seek to keep an intact hide

and our own fire will burn down to an ember

the only glory

the price of liberty is still the same
a chunk of life belongs to other folk
we don't consider this to be a game

we give the ones who claim to lead a poke
they have to listen if they want to lead
our way of life can never be a joke

the choice is clear so is the normal deed
there's but one option that is not to fail
it's not a matter for desire nor greed

knave and fool alike we'll send to gaol
all that must matter is the human stake
one who desires to rule must not be stale

we all of us desire the same big break
a life with good things and but little pain
we know to tell the honest from the fake

we balance sun and blue with cloud and rain
there's got to be a space for every soul
we lose together and as one we gain

that's the objective the celestial pole
we can't all be alone in our fast cars
we all belong to the great human whole

we live in mud but we can see the stars

hoping for evening

now we have windows into vanished spaces
pasts that have gone almost beyond recall
each of us wonders at the sort of places

could be considered how the visions fall
not just upon the eye but on the heart
one keeps on looking soaking in it all

these are the creatures of some larger art
but we aren't the onces who should critique
we can't choose but to play a proper part

our lives and passions are no way unique
but we must live them and attempt to find
the thing that keeps us moving week to week

almost the passion makes us deaf and blind
but still the light that guides us does not fade
and our stern purpose is still kept in mind

so hot outside the lions seek the shade
their prey will just escape them in this heat
yet the mad human must go on parade

still the policeman must patrol his beat
and watch as shadows move at glacial pace
while others in cool water soak their feet

we're caught up in an ever-changing race
and yet we know we cannot truly run
and so must find some manner to save face

the brightest flower will quail before this sun
not one of us but will withhold our pride
the greatest player will not have any fun

so what the music issues from each side
we aren't the ones who want to hear the sound
at this point we just want to end the ride

and hold on to some tiny bit of ground
where we can make our simple claim of right
some such a paradise others have found

meanwhile we hope for a much kinder light

the tree of liberty

if we can answer why must we then ask
those questions to which others must reply
that's not our purpose nor is it our task

rather we seek with soaring hearts to fly
above the common herd and claim our place
where none can challenge the well-spoken lie

not one of us who could with honour face
the grieving mother or the bereft child
instead we order them to know their place

our response must come in words that are mild
that make a show of regret and of ruth
so that we make our questioners seem wild

as long as we don't have to tell the truth
whatever lie we make should sound sincere
if not the editor's at work in his small booth

so set face solemn produce a simple tear
there's nothing like eye-water for a mask
and tell the grieving that you hold them dear

speak in high tones of duty of a noble task
that leads to danger but that must be met
and ignore all the hard questions they might ask

keep your mien sombre and your brow set
into a visage that indicates deepest concern
and hope that they will all too soon forget

all of the waste and come instead to learn
that you are wiser that you know the way
and if they suffer well then it was their turn

their fortune is to bask within your ray
you know the way that things ought to be run
this is your moment your triumphal day

before you're turned to ashes by the sun

the sailor's return

the image can be set in words that burn
with clearest light and do not need a shape
that's odd or twisted the simplest turn

will do to set the limits or cut the tape
you get the vision with the shortest run
of language the ship goes round the cape

into new seas and on the distant beach
a girl laments for lovers who are so far
that neither mind nor voice could ever reach

perhaps a youth who's been summoned to war
or a stern husband who's gone out to sea
she hopes for messages or swears by a star

that she will not be angered will let him be
whatever he desires just so he stays
beside her and does not think to flee

there's hope here for the older settled ways
the certainty of seasons the sure ward
of centuries of practice but in these days

when nothing can be certain is is too hard
to hope for vision that rewards the heart
no man or woman halts within their yard

distance and time will serve to keep apart
and no warm signals will come to this land
although within the messenger's fine art

instead one seeks the best that comes to hand
she is not sure but she knows that her wail
will break the hearts of those who understand

she is not waiting in the hope that a sail
will break horizon and that her lovely boy
or man is watching from the ship's fore-rail

(the kind of love that ages cannot cloy)
her soul is part of a great human choir
that best expresses desire and great joy

at knowing that there stilll remains a fire

unchained this moment

enough that we cannot speak here of time
the matter is one that can truly frighten
the journey's one continual upward climb

nothing is here that a little fear won't brighten
someone would notice if we were to weep
and things are not run by the admirable chrichton

we can't explore unless we go real deep
that's going to scare the ones who truly speak
they'll soon be forced to retreat past sleep

not one of us who isn't at bottom weak
this is a fact that none but you can take
for we never find the things we truly seek

it's always hard to distinguish real from fake
in order to make haste we must move slow
(and this assertion sure is no mistake)

the river that has the most restrained flow
waters more plants than the fast-rushing stream
but in its passing we can see no glow

not milk for us nothing but the best cream
we are the masters of this tiny space
and our forbearance has been an empty dream

give unto us the matter we most desire
we will assert that we have the best right
beneath us glows the last most baneful fire

but we are not the children of the light

the living stream

had we the story told both rich and deep
we would not now have access to the light
but still we have our honesty to keep

the richness of the colour outlasts night
whatever comes will not be only ours
still there is joy at presence of the sight

there is no legacy of these plain powers
at once the movement seems quite correct
just hidden though are many lovely flowers

the worshippers belong to no known sect
under their flag there's never any fear
the shouting and the cries have no effect

each of us knows just how much to bear
we have no guardians and we must climb
each single day until we've made a year

but this is no simple matter of mere time
though life be short the living is quite long
to celebrate and cheer it is no crime

so much is here that others might deem wrong
and yet we do it that's the point of all
our plain doing and the rest's for song

we journey upward though we fear to fall
nothing here can challenge our desire
to answer joyous the direct and noble call

these hopes and principles will not expire
through every vein the happiness will run
we've faced the night and the most dreadful fire

and now we each stand laughing in the sun

mapping hell

there's no room for action and still less for thought
the place we settle down in is never truly home
we face the constant tension between is and ought

through heavy seas and through the bitter foam
we make our way and plan to tell our tales
no one but us should be allowed to roam

far out at sea we've seen the play of whales
the spouts are joyful and the waves not steep
what we expect may still be though it fails

names and addresses are the things we'll keep
not one of us can name the truths of hope
still we must make some hay before we sleep

the work we do will pull some up the slope
to name our terrors does not make them flee
we find ourselves with time that's not like rope

we can't play out the things that we might see
not one of us can say that we've been pure
the ocean comes and will not let things be

those who will come may not so long endure
they'll fill their pockets with the brightest stones
and then will vanish in a moment to be sure

the one who sharpens knives the one who hones
both blade and argument till they're so sharp
they'll cut the skin and cut right through the bones

we cover all the field with cloth and tarp
no ray of light will enter till we're done
meanwhile the lady plays upon her harp

the largest herds will down to the shore run
without the least doubt we'll be told what's true
and then we'll flee from the heat of a may sun

we've done our jobs there's nothing we could rue
but still we worry and we search the skies
for any helpful omen any change in the old view

about the corpse there always will be flies
but that's not our problem now we've got the light
truth comes to us well guarded by our lies

the day must fade and we must face the night
there's nothing we might do to end these jars
our hearts are high we will not now take fright

above our heads we see the summer stars

my folk of rain and calm

there's something here that soothes the tired eye
not just the calm and softness of the rain
pearl-grey and soft the clouds reframe the sky

we've waited and we've wondered at the drain
of strength and water from the tired ground
creek feeds to creek and river flows to plain

now here our steady quiet magnifies the sound
from radio and from bird the moments change
as we have come to value all we've found

all that's familiar does not now become strange
the world has turned the winds have taken cloud
the clouds have played their role in the exchange

and yet we know that nothing seems so loud
as all the growth that's brought together parts
into a complex whole of which nature is proud

and which brings comfort to the driest hearts

without transition

within the moment what room to be
no sham this enterprise emergent
what not to understand or even see

the answer that arrives most urgent
wherever growth resumes in spring
grass climbing up the slope resurgent

not heard the telephone's faint ring
messages taken coming across ocean
all avian creatures rise on happy wing

soothed by the touch of emollient lotion
a storm recedes clouds scurry west
there's no reason for any great commotion

instead we ask each candidate for the test
not for an answer but a better query
selecting all the bad ones not the best

the response given does not make us teary
intensity of concern drives us wild
but we have got good reason to be wary

the adult carries in his soul the child
that looked on the wide world with wonder
and now considers things and is not mild

what had created such a curious blunder
the sense of being not a whole but part
of some smaller being with no thunder

we go back and examine from the start
the nastier production of the torpid night
and see in them the makings of new art

it is our duty here to make clean light